Adrift
by VervainAndRoses
Summary: Mary and Francis welcome their firstborn, but life has something else planned. And at the end, the only thing left to do is find ways to deal. Chapter 2/Sequel: Even after this life is over, a love like theirs couldn't be.
1. Adrift

"He's really small." It's the first thing he says when he lays eyes on his son for the first time, completely dumbfounded at the red little thing wrapped on blankets upon blankets, nestled on the arms of his exhausted mother.

"He's a baby, Francis." Mary laughs tiredly, and even covered in sweat and completely disheveled she's radiant, glowing. Her entire countenance seems flooded with light at holding her baby in her arms. His beautiful wife, the mother of his son. His thoughts are jumbled and amazed, but overcome by a happiness that can't be named. The biggest of smiles takes over his face without him even realizing it.

"Could I…ah…" He motions to Mary's arms, somehow afraid to intrude or cross boundaries he isn't supposed to.

"Come here, darling." Mary tells him, perhaps guessing his thoughts, as she always has been able to. He approaches her, and she places the baby delicately in the crook he made with his arms.

"Hello." He says to the sleeping baby, softly, unsure. He knows how to navigate difficult political conversations and how to control civil unrest, but speaking to his newborn son is a completely new territory. "Hello, James." He says, finally able to say his name to him out loud, the name Mary and him picked months ago; and tears spring to his eyes because he's not talking to her swelled stomach any longer, but holding his son in his arms.

"I'm your father." He mutters tenderly; and hears Mary's soft, fatigued laugh like bells twinkling behind him. Perhaps it is what makes the sleeping babe in his arms open his eyes to him, big blue eyes that startle him so. To see his own eyes on that little face…suddenly words aren't needed, yet a few he still utters.

"Je t'aime, mon petit prince." He says, kissing the soft, downy dark hair on his baby's head. He turns to look at Mary then, and she wears the most radiant smile he's ever seen on her.

He holds the tiny baby closer to his chest, enjoying the warmth and the weight of this little mixture of both of them, their first child, the first of many.

"I love you, Mary." He tells her earnestly, coming closer to her, and she smiles but she doesn't say it back. She doesn't say it anything at all, but a crystal tear runs down her cheek. She doesn't answer him as her eyes begin to close and then the midwifes, quiet until them, start yelling about bleeding and calling the physician and it being too late, and he's pushed out of the room, all the while holding his son in his arms. He doesn't understand anything as the door is closed in front of him just like Mary's eyes. All that crashes down upon him then, all that he knows, are two things.

He won't see her smile again. The baby won't stop crying.

.

He cries for her at night. The night before they bury her, when she's dressed all in white, her skin almost paler than the fabric and so cold, so very cold; eyes closed, unnaturally still. His mother lays the baby down on her chest so he can say goodbye, and he leaves as he realizes his son will never know the woman who died after bringing him to the world. He cries for her. He helps build her coffin himself, and the other workers say nothing as their King exerts himself as if every nail hammered would bring his wife back or diminish his pain.

He weeps like a child one night, like their child he refuses to see, too consumed with pain. The day after the funeral, after seeing them lock her in the wooden box carved with her coat of arms and roses, they entomb his wife, _his Mary_, so beautiful and full of live, trapped forever between the marble and the dead. Their sheets, his sheets now, are grasped with angry fists, chest red and mouth open against the mattress drowning out the sounds of his misery. He reigns himself in after that. Drowns in sorrow that no one can see, then in wine. When it stops working, something stronger. Before he realizes it a month has gone by and the castle bustles back to activity even as its King remains at a standstill.

.

He sees to it that his son is tended to by the finest wet nurse, then the best maids, and his own mother is constantly in the baby's room herself and mentioning how he grows stronger and bigger every day after meeting with nobles.

His mother beams with pride at her second grandchild, but she coddles him more than he ever did with Claude, his and Lola's daughter. Perhaps because James is legitimate, or motherless, but whatever the reason he is glad that the boy at least has someone of his own blood caring for him, because he finds himself paralyzed outside of his nursery every time he tries to go inside.

"He's a perfectly healthy baby boy." His mother informs him, and he's happy, he is; but he can't help but turn away and look out of the windows to his kingdom, he can't help but think that Mary should have been by his side, and he curses himself to hell when he thinks that it's James' fault that she isn't.

"He looks like you, you know? He has _your_ eyes." His mother says intently, as if the chance that their son looked like her, like _Mary_, would bring him back to his knees, turn him back into the worthless excuse of a man he was in the days following her death. Perhaps because it's been three months and he has seen his son only a handful of times when he wasn't busy with his advisors or busy with alcohol and even then, the child had cried while in his arms, utterly unknowing of him and certainly disgusted by the smell of wine perpetually in his clothes.

"I know." He says. _I wish he had her eyes_, he doesn't. I'm afraid I'll forget what they looked like, he feels deep inside.

.

He takes Claude to meet her half-brother when the baby is nearly five months old, and the blonde little girl all but drags him to the nursery, utterly excited.

"Leave us, please." He requests of the nurses inside the room when they arrive, and he walks toward the crib slowly, Claude's little hand pulling on his doublet the only thing that pushes him forward. He's shocked at how much his son has grown. Whenever he thinks of the baby the pain of losing Mary is sharp on his chest, intricately tied with his birth forever. The bleeding hadn't stopped. He'd lost her. He shakes his head as if to clear before he picks the baby up, carefully, trying to hush the soft cries that begin as soon as James finds himself in unfamiliar arms.

He sits himself down by a chaise where Claude can climb besides him, and her little hands immediately go to the baby's face.

"Be careful." He says right away, trying too hard and not enough to see his late wife in their son's face.

"Little nose." Claude sings. "Little fingers." She says when he unwinds the baby's swaddle from around him, letting the boy move his arms and kick his little legs freely. He hates the thing, has no idea why the nurses insist on wrapping him so tightly.

"Mary is his maman." She says sweetly, while playing with the baby's toes. She'd seen her stomach swell, had even talked to the baby while it was still inside his mother. Because even after everything, Mary had been kind to Claude, she'd looked past his indiscretions and forgiven him and then cared about his child as if she didn't pain her. His sweet Mary.

"Yes, she is." He says; is, not was. She always will _be_.

"Papa, where's Mary?" Claude asks him, and he stops cold, his thumb stopping to trace circles on his son's dark head, because like every single time, it hits him with full force. The fact that she's gone to a place he can't follow, that she's left him and their child and he doesn't know how to do it, any of it; how to care for him, or stop drinking so much, or live, or maybe just stop fucking disappointing her like he surely has been doing for the past months.

"It's time to go, Claude." He tells her sternly. "Your mother is probably wanting you back." He lays the baby down on his crib and calls for the nurses to come back inside before taking his daughter's hand.

"Don't swaddle him so tight. He seems uncomfortable." He orders one of the maids once they come back in.

"Of course, your majesty." She curtsies, and he nods in acknowledgment before leaving the room and not looking back.

.

It's not fair. It's not fucking fair, any of it.

That Mary had to watch Lola and their daughter together all the time, that she'd cried at night, that she'd suffered because the thought she'd never have that. That she endured three years of that sorrow quietly, and when she'd finally become pregnant she was ecstatic. They both were. She stopped wearing her high heeled court shoes right away, her corsets, stopped worrying so much, let him take control of Scottish affairs for a while. She'd done everything right, everything! Then _why?!_

Why wasn't she here?! Why couldn't she see her son grow up? Why wasn't she the one to sing him Scottish songs to sleep or read him her favorite books? He hates himself for not saving her, hates God for taking her away from him. Damn it, he hates it all! His hand flies furious against a vase, sending the porcelain flying and shattering into fragments.

He turns at the sound of a gasp from the door. There stands his mother, wide eyed, and a toddler hiding behind her skirts.

"He wanted to show his father his painting." His mother says almost apologetically, a piece of paper obviously painted by small fingers on one hand, holding James' hand on the other.

_God damn, he ruins everything_. Francis rubs his hand over his bloodshot eyes and unshaven, coarse cheeks before turning around, calmer for his son's sake.

"James." He reaches for his son but the little boy jumps back, his pout trembling and fear in his eyes. His mother looks at him sadly before picking James up in her arms.

"Maybe another day." She says apologetically, leaving him alone, and then…Then the King of France just sits on the floor and weeps. Everything's fallen apart.

.

"Give James a bath and put him to bed, will you?" He hears coming from outside the door. "Grandma will be right with you, my darling."

His mother doesn't knock as she strides back inside, and he doesn't have enough shame or dignity to leave his spot on the floor next to the fireplace.

"Francis, I'm sorry, I didn't know…I would have never wanted him to see you like this." His mother brushes back the hair from his eyes much like he does for James, pure pain in her eyes.

"I just miss her… so damn much." He says tickly, staring into the flames.

"Your son misses _you_." Catherine tells him keenly, offering him a hand to stand up. He doesn't take it, instead rises to his full height and hugs his mother tightly, as if he was still a child, like he wishes he was.

"_Oh, my dear_." She says, holding him just a tightly, rubbing his back, and somehow, letting someone else in makes a little of the pain on his heart begin to leak away.

.

It's a little over a week afterwards, once he's sure there's not an ounce of wine left in his system, and he's shaved and bathed at least twice, that he visits his son's room. He's with his governess, trying to finish a puzzle, his hands still chubby with baby fat trying to push the wooden pieces anywhere he thinks they might fit.

The woman stands up once she realizes he's there, and immediately drops into a curtsy.

"Your majesty. I didn't know you would be visiting today." She says, then motions for James to stand up and the boy does so with big eyes.

"He-Hello, Father." The little boy says, clearly having practiced it before, and it breaks his heart that he's been keeping himself away from his son and his pain between maps and advisors and wine for so long that his own son doesn't feel comfortable around him. Just like his own father did with him. Francis doesn't want to be like his father a second longer. He drops down on one knee to James' height.

"Hello James." He's grown up so fast. He remembers when he used to watch him toddle around the castle on short little legs, or pull on Sterling's tail, the old dog taking care of his son like he used to do with his mother.

"Would you, eh, would you like to go riding with me tomorrow?" He asks, foolishly afraid of rejection from the nearly four year old.

"Yes, Father." James says, then looking up to his nursemaid, that gives him a reassuring smile. He hates himself in that moment for all the time that he's lost, and promises himself he won't lose another second. He smiles in that moment, and James' answering smile make him think that his son doesn't hate him like he thought.

"Where we go?" James blurts out suddenly, earning him a glare from his nursemaid.

"You majesty, he is still very young-"

"Would you leave us?" He asks kindly.

"Of course." She curtsies and walks out. James is looking to the floor, and he stands up offering his hand. The boy looks up to him, surprised perhaps at the amount of attention he's receiving today from his father.

"Sit with me?" He asks, helping James up on the windowsill where he takes a seat himself.

"Riding where? Where?" James asks, excited for the trip. Francis knows he's been badgering his grandmother for a Pony for a week.

"See those hills over there?" He asks James, pointing toward the far off green planes outside.

"Where?" James asks, straining to look outside. He's surprised when the boy climbs on to his lap then, it's been so long since he's held him, but James seems to not notice it. Francis brings him closer to himself, smiling faintly, and then points out of the window.

"Back over there. I used to go all the time with your uncle Bash…" He begins, and then just talks, tells his son tales of his hunting trips with Bash, of what animals live there, makes up stories as he goes along, but just talks and talks until he realizes that James has fallen fast asleep against his chest.

He brushes back some of the little boy's dark hair away from his forehead. His throat stings, his very chest aches at the realization that he blamed his own son for Mary's death after she gave birth to him. That he's let her down and he's let James down, and that all this time of short little visits every week and paying more attention to his country than to his child make him undeserving of the tittle of Father.

"I'm so sorry." He whispers to James before kissing his forehead, and laying the boy down on his bed.

.

He sits James in front of him on the horse, and they gallop softly through the hills beside the castle, the little boy screaming happily at being on a horse for the first time, and Francis feels a sad sort of happiness flow through him, the knowledge of what he's missed buried in his own sorrow and pain, and the joy of knowing that there's still time.

He stops just above a hill, the river beneath them and trees as far as the eye could see.

"You will rule all of this one day." He tells James, and the boy looks up at him wide eyed.

"Really?" He stumbles over the word.

"Yes. And you will be great King, you have your mother's blood." He says, and mentioning Mary doesn't hurt as much as it usually does.

"Mother?" The boy keeps quiet for a second before continuing. "Grandma said she heaven." James explains, and it hits Francis that he's never spoken about Mary in all of these years, not to Bash, or his mother, or anyone. It only seems fitting that James should be the one he talks to, as his son never actually met her, or saw how wonderful his mother was.

"She is heaven, I'm sure. She was the best person I knew." James turns to look at him as much as he can and not fall of the horse, completely absorbed by his tone of voice. "She was so beautiful, your mother. The most beautiful woman I ever met. But she wasn't just that. She was brave and smart and fiercely loyal. And she loved you." He looks down at James, who's listening wide-eyed as it's the first time his father has mentioned his mother to him. "She loved you more than anything."

"James I…." He doesn't know how to do this anymore, without Mary and after years of numbing the pain in his chest with wine he hardly remembers, but he tries. "I haven't been a good father to you. "He says simply, honestly. "And I am so sorry." He gets it out of his chest, and he doesn't know just how much does the boy understand but he's never been more honest.

"Let's go back, I don't want you to catch a cold." He says, and reign the horse back in direction of the chateau, a very quiet little boy sitting in front of him, holding the reigns above his father's hands.

.

"Did you have fun?" He asks once James is safely back in his room, and his advisor are trailing behind him because there are matters he needs to tend to.

"Yes Father." James answers him, guarded once more at the sight of those old men waiting for his father outside. Francis know he can't expect to be treated warmly after so much time of abandonment but his chest aches at the thought that his son and him will have a relationship like he did with his father, it would be all his fault.

"You can call me Papa." He says, kneeling down in front of James, who only looks at him, saying nothing. Francis' throat constricts. "Would you give me a hug before I leave?" He asks his son, opening his arms, and the little boy just looks at them, at him. And then James is throwing himself into his arms and hugging him as hard as his little arms can.

"Don't leave, Papa." He says quietly, and Francis stands up with his son in his arms. He remembers twirling Mary in his arms years ago, asking her to marry him, remembers every single thing that they went through and though his chest aches with the memories he knows that the result of all that love is laughing in his arms now. Their son, his son that needs him more than anyone else. He was a wreck, a part of him will always be now that Mary's gone but he's not alone, and he should have never felt that way.

"Je t'aime, mon petit prince." He tells his son, and James looks back at him with his same blue eyes and a big goofy smile, and the pain on his heart lessens because despite his foolishness not everything's lost. Somewhere on the back of his mind he has an image of Mary smiling the first time he held their son, and all he can do is hope that she'll help him somehow, and that perhaps she's smiling right now.


	2. Anchor

He wakes up in a cold sweat, panting. His nightmare was about the day she left him this time. He was running after her, but she just got farther and farther away, until he couldn't see her anymore; and he somehow just knew that he'd never see her again if he didn't reach her but still he couldn't catch up. Other nights it's just their last conversation, played endlessly on his mind, and on those he's not sure if he's angry or thankful he was kicked out of the room before she gave her last breath.

This night, he kicks the covers off, swings his legs off the bed. It's still dark outside, the night sky the color of spilled ink. He runs his hand over his face, rubs his eyes of the sleep that he won't be going back to, at least for tonight, and every other night she appears in his mind.

.

Some nights she seems blurry in his nightmares, a washed up version of the woman she was, and he wakes up and worries that he's forgetting her, although he never could. That he's forgetting the way she smelled or the way she looked right after she woke up or when she smiled at him or the crease between her brows when she was angry, the way her voice sounded or her laugh, or the way her lips tasted; there are so many little things that hurt to remember but would kill him to forget.

.

It's a few months after James turns two that the nightmares finally stop, he thinks perhaps because by then he's too deeply intoxicated for his brain to conjure up any images to torture him further. But then, after waking up with a heavy and pounding head from all the wine, and dry eyes from a night without nightmares, he realizes he's a coward, suddenly wishes they hadn't stopped at all; because he would gladly wake up in agony every night if it meant that he still got to see her in some way.

.

He stops blaming his child, works towards stopping to blame himself. He hasn't dreamed of her in months, now far too tired of signing treaties and meeting with nobles and then taking his son for a ride on his pony, or building him a small bow as a birthday present. He doesn't have nightmares of her any longer nor does he dream of her at all. It's not better, not at all, but it isn't worse than watching her smile and die over and over again. It's a small sort of comfort.

.

James turns four on a bright summer day, and for the first time since he was born, he's there to celebrate with his son. The party is held on the castle's gardens, the tables decorated with James' favorite colors and every child at court in attendance, including the children of the servants. There are smiles on everyone's faces as they watch the happy boy chase his friends around, and he tries hard, for his son, not to think of the smile missing at the party.

His little brother Charles is beaming, though he knows it has nothing to do with the party and everything to do with the beautiful girl by his side. Madeleine turned fourteen weeks ago at the very castle, and their wedding is planned for next month. He can't help but remember their engagement party when they were mere children, and the way he held Mary's hand as they recalled their own childhood. But for once, thinking about her brings a smile to his face and none of the usual sorrow to his heart.

A cry of "Up, up!" breaks him out of his recollections, and he has only seconds to react before James launches himself into his arms. He fakes a groan as he picks him up.

"You've gotten so heavy." He tells his smiling son, his little face red from being outside all day. "Papa, I want cake. Grandma said no." James tells him, grasping his doublet. "I want cake. It's my birthday!" He demands, clearly having inherited Mary's talent for making big eyes and getting his way.

"Well…."

"Papa!"

"I suppose a piece won't hurt you." He concedes. "Just don't tell your grandmother, are we agreed?"

"Yes!" James screams gleefully as he lowers him back down, running toward the banquet table and asking a noblewoman to lower him some pastry. He nods his consent when she looks back at him, and then a beaming James is handed a piece of the most disgustingly sweet looking thing. He hears her thank the lady and notices his son has mastered charm at age four.

He suddenly needs some when his own mother looks at him disapprovingly, shaking her head at him; but he knows it's all a show as they exchange a look and she looks genuinely happy for him, not just for James.

It's true the boy doesn't go to sleep until far too late that night, driving his governess absolutely insane, and leaving him to tell a story about four times before he finally succumbs to sleep, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

James had fun, ran around with the other children and played until he was tired, and he's happy when he leaves him tucked in for the night and walks back to his room. It's only when he climbs into the big bed alone when he realizes that not once did he think of the day as the anniversary of Mary's death, but only as the birthday of their son.

.

Catherine braids back Claude's blonde tresses as they get ready for a walk in the gardens, as she's taken to doing on some afternoons with her grandchildren. James sits on a chaise, appearing utterly bored with their task.

"Your hair is getting so long and beautiful." The dowager Queen tell her granddaughter, tying up a ribbon at the end of her braid.

"My mother's hair is longer." James chimes in suddenly, making Catherine turn around and stare at him.

"What did you say James?" She asks him, but the little boy just looks down and clamps his mouth shut as if he's said something he wasn't supposed to. "James?" Catherine inquires again.

"My mother's hair is longer," he says again, quite clearly this time, "shiny and black," He continues, his little hands motioning as if he could see something the others were blind to.

"But your mother is dead." Claude tells her half-brother, with no ill will but merely the simplicity of a child. "Queen Mary is dead, isn't she, grandmother?" She turns to Catherine, but she's at a loss.

"How do you know, my dear?" She asks James, seeing as the boy never knew his mother. "Have you seen a painting of her?" She asks, reminding herself that they had one made after Francis and Mary's wedding, but still her young daughter-in-law had her hair pinned up.

"Because I seen it." James tells her simply, and jumps down from the chaise now that Claude's hair is braided. "We go now?" He asks impatiently.

"_Can_ we go now?" Catherine corrects the four-year-old gently, before offering his hand and leading them outside, trying to ignore the odd feeling her grandson's words give her.

.

Francis is sitting on the desk inside his rooms when his mother enters, unannounced. He looks up, seeing her deep in thought, and finishes signing a lease while he says, "Mother. What is it?"

"I was braiding Claude's hair earlier today, before our walk, and James said something that...worried me a little." At the mention of his son he puts the quill down and stops his work, staring quizzically at his mother.

"Is he all right?"

"I was commenting on Claude's hair, and he said that Mary's hair was longer." Catherine tells him, and the hairs on his arms stand on end.

"I've…I've been talking to him about her; I want him to know her as much as possible. It's nothing." He tells her, shaking his head and looking back down at the work he's yet to do before he can succumb to much needed rest.

"He said that he knew because he'd _seen_ it." Catherine tells him, walking closer to her son. "Did you show him a portrait? Do you have any other paintings of her besides the one from your wedding ceremony?"

"No, I don't." He tells her. "He…he never met her, and he watches his sister with her mother, and the other children with theirs, and he doesn't have Mary." He shakes his head, the tight feeling on his chest and throat something he's gotten used, once it was Mary, but now grief seems to be the oldest friend he has. "I'll talk with him in the morning."

"You agree he needs a mother." Catherine tells him before she can stop herself, the suggestion hanging over her words, but he doesn't stop for a beat.

"He needs _his_ mother, and she's gone." He says sternly. "If France was in need of an alliance I'd do it in a heartbeat mother, but I simply can't wed anyone while there's no need to." He tells her simply. "My heart is buried with her."

"I apologize, I never meant to imply….I just worry about James." She tells him honestly. "You know how your father was before his death. He saw things that were not there."

"He's a child." Francis says, worry starting to gnaw at him at the thought that his son might somehow be sick. "He never met his mother, until a few months ago he barely spent any time with me. He was an orphan during his first years, and that is my fault, but I'm trying to mend it. If he's making these things up-"

"You don't think he truly could have seen her?" Catherine interrupts him, the possibility heavy in her mind from the very beginning. The words stop Francis on his tracks. "I could send a letter to Nostradamus, him and Olivia are living in Paris now-"

"Don't. Are you listening to yourself? She's dead. She's been dead for four years." Francis tells his mother, the words burning on their way out. He doesn't believe in ghosts, or in magic, he never has; and he ignores the small doubt, the hope that plants itself on his chest because he'd believe anything, he'd be and do anything to see her once more.

"Not even in dreams somehow?" His mother asks again, knowing after all her years with a seer by her side and the dreams she had after Henry's death that there are so many things people don't understand. Like a child dreaming of a mother he never met.

"That's impossible."

"Is it?"

.

He enters James' room bright and early the next day, and dismisses his maids to help him finish getting dressed himself. He sits beside him as he insisted on pulling on his boots all by himself, and he tries to think of a way to approach the subject.

"James, I want to talk about what you told your sister and your grandmother this morning." He tells him. "Do you remember? About your mother?"

James looks up at him and nods, and then concentrates again on pulling on his booth.

"Here, let me help you." He says, grabbing his tiny foot and putting on his shoe. "Did you make it up?" He asks him gently, but James remains quiet.

"James? You know you can talk to me." He tells him, reminding him that he will always be there to listen. In the past few months not once as he turned away from his son before he finished telling one of his stories in a mixture of French and his own made up language. Seeing as James' face is scrunched up, seemingly in concentration, and that he's not planning on saying anything, Francis blames the innocent words on the longing for the Maman James never got to have.

"I know you miss her, I do as well but-"

"She said tell Papa whatever happens that I love him." James interrupts him with a whisper, fast and mumbled up, before running off and out of his room; and the words send a chill down his spine.

.

That night, he calls for his servants to bring him wine for the first time in months, fully intent on once more drowning out the pain in his chest in the thick red liquid. Too many memories flood back to him.

"I want you to know, whatever happens that I love you." She'd told him, years ago; the night before she fled the castle with his brother, in an attempt to protect him from Nostradamus' prophecy. It's what she'd whispered to him so many nights when he was agitated, not knowing what the right course of action was, but with her by his side to provide counsel and comfort. Whatever went right or wrong, come hell or heaven, she'd been by his side and loved him. And he'd loved her, God, how he still loves her.

And now his son, his own child was telling him the words she used to say, words he never told James about and that he couldn't have known. The servant coming in with the goblet and the jug full of wine interrupts him, and sets the strong smelling liquid down in the low table in front of him before bowing and leaving him alone with his thoughts once more.

_How. _How could James have said that? He's 4 for crying out loud. Even if it was a coincidence, how could a little boy make such thing up? The shallow numbness the alcohol brings calls to him once more, as it did all these past years. The promise that if he drinks enough he won't have to feel, or think, or remember. It's so, so tempting. But then he thinks of his son, and of Mary's smile the first and only time she saw them together.

And then it doesn't take him that much of an effort to walk away from the comfort of the drink. He needs to keep himself together. He can't afford to fall apart.

.

He knows he's dreaming as soon as his eyes open up to the blinding sunlight. His life isn't usually this bright, as even the sun seems to have dulled somehow; and his dreams-or lack of them, had never been either. Furthermore, the lake in front of the castle had grown with the rains two years ago and taken over the place where he and Mary met before they were wed. And here it is, just as it was before they were wed. And at last, his wife is dead. Yet here she is as well.

This isn't real. He tells himself that over and over again, shocked by the image of her- sitting on the ground, her legs folded underneath her, a peaceful smile on her face- an image that he hasn't seen in so long. He hasn't dreamed of her in years, and even when he did she was dying and covered in sweat and blood. But she looks radiant now, as beautiful as ever. He walks, or rather, stumbles, to where she is on the ground.

"What-I-Mary?... I'm dreaming. I…" Words escape him, he swears he can smell the lavender skin from her skin, from the oils she always used in her baths. "I'm imagining this. You can't really be here." He says out loud, surprised that he can hear himself speaking, surprised that this feels so damn real yet he know he's asleep.

"You never did believe in superstition, my love." She answers him, finally looking up, and damn it all, he falls to his knees right in front of –of her, of whatever this vision is. He hasn't heard her voice since she died, not even in the most real of his nightmares did her voice sound like it did just now, so warm and kind and _real. _As if she was really here. And her eyes, her big brown eyes pin him down, they shine amber in the light and he finds himself getting lost in this, whatever miracle or curse it is. It's a dream he never wants to wake up from.

He reaches out to touch her and at the warmth of her skin, Francis comes undone.

An avalanche of feelings come over him and it makes choke on his breath. He has been without her for what feels like a lifetime and her skin feels like silk under his fingertips and she's warm and vibrant and alive, and her smell is intoxicating him.

"Have I gone mad?" He asks her, waiting at any moment for her image to start disappearing. He's shocked to see the kindest of looks form on her face as tears gather in her eyes, and she just shakes her head _no, _smiling at him; and his chest feels the familiar pull her presence always brought. It tears him apart. She's gone.

But still he kneels down, his forehead resting on her folded legs and his hand grasping her thigh, she's gone but she feels so real and warm and alive.

"Mary…" He whispers against her skin, afraid that the smallest of murmurs will blow her away like the wind. He knows, logically, that this isn't true. But it doesn't feel like a dream anymore. "Am I dead?" He asks her when he pulls away, seeing another possibility.

"No, my darling." She tells him, running her fingers through his hair like she always used to do.

"Sometimes I wish I was." He confesses, as her hands continue to undo him, he can't see her face from where he is but her fingers caress his hair and it's like a spell for him, he'd never move.

"Oh no, our son needs you." It's her answer, and there's so much bursting inside of him; the realization that maybe by some miracle she's actually here and this is truly her, he stands up from his place on her legs, starling her.

"James… was it true?" He asks desperately. "Did he really see you?" He might have gone mad despite what she-Mary-says, he might be talking with himself; but if this is really her… He dares to touch her, lets his hand settle on her cheek when she doesn't disappear but feels more real with every passing moment. "How?"

"I did come to him on his birthday, much like this. I wasn't supposed to as he never really knew me but I couldn't bear it." She rambles a bit like she used to do at times, and his reservations begin to fall away one by one, like the tears that have gathered on his eyes. "He's grown so much." She tells him. "He looks just like you, except for his hair of course. He has my father's dark hair. Even darker than mine." Her thumbs rub away the saltiness from his cheeks.

"Your father? But you…" _Never met your father, _it's what he was going to say, but she gives him this smile that says not to ask, and it's like no time has passed; he can still read her like an open book. Both of his hands now, run down her arms. "He has your smile too." It's what he says instead; because it's true, and he only noticed it quite recently as before James never smiled in his presence, not at all.

And he's always been so ashamed of his actions, ashamed of neglecting his son and even more of blaming him from his mother's death. And the only disgusting comfort he got on those cowardly nights where he drowned his misery in wine is that Mary, that his love would never have to see him like that. That she wouldn't know, and even if she did; he wouldn't have to face her anger or her hate. But here he is now.

"Mary," he chokes out, "I'm sorry. _I'm so sorry_. You should hate me, God knows I hate myself. I'm so sorry." He grabs her hands, desperately, turns his eyes away because he never deserved her or her love, he doesn't deserve this chance to explain himself, he doesn't deserve that this angel loved him and went too heaven for giving him a child. She tries to take his cheek in her hand but he just pulls her away, kissing her palm as his chest tremors, because perhaps she doesn't know and that's the only reason why she's here. He kisses her palm like the goodbye he never got to have.

"I blamed our baby." It's what he tells her at last as he looks up at her, tears clouding his vision and pain the taste inside of his mouth.

"I know." She says, a single tear running down the smoothness of her cheek and for the first time he doesn't feel worthy of wiping it away, of even touching her at all. Shame is all he feels. "I forgive you for that." She says, sinking her hand in his curls, her thumb rubbing over the shade of his beard. "And he has too. It's in the past." She tells him, and she's crying now. "He loves you and he needs you, and I'm so happy to see you together at last."

He doesn't answer, he just crushes her against his chest, and let's go of a breath he's been holding for 4 years when she hugs him back. He doesn't know how much or how little time goes by after that, and he doesn't care. He just breathes her in, his hand treading through her dark hair, running up and down her back, just feeling her, here in his arms once more.

"Can I stay here forever?" He asks quietly, his thumb brushing her cheek and her lower lip.

"Not now." She answers him, opening her eyes. "They need you. Our son, your daughter, your brothers and sisters, your mother…" She sits up again, pulling away from him. "France and Scotland."

Shen shrugs softly as she says it, and with a smile; but behind it is the weight they never quite managed to forget about, that they never could shake off. Their countries, their life. The only thing that had to take precedence over each other (although sometimes it did not, which they both knew but wouldn't say out loud.) He can't help himself as his hand reaches for her again, treading between her dark waves and caressing her cheek. They loved each other far too much.

He leans in and brushes his lips against her, painfully soft and slow. And suddenly he remembers what it feels like to be whole.

"I love you Francis." She tells him, as if guessing his thoughts when he pulls away, and his heart positively aches. "I will always love you."

"I…" How could he explain? He didn't just love her, passionate and raw and real; he trusted her, he believed in her as much as he believed in God. She was everything. Still is. He loves her, and a lifetime more worth. But he can't seem to put it into words. "I-"

"I know." She just tells him. And it's there once more, how they never needed words. How one look was enough for them to know, to understand. It's there how he's nothing without her.

"More than my own life." He gasps out. And she smiles but she looks so sad. "I need you." He tells her desperately, and she just holds his face in her hands. "I need help. With James, with our countries…I-" He shakes his head, leaning it against her forehead.

"He likes it better when you make up stories than when you read to him." Mary tells him, her voice ticker. And he pull away to look at her glinting eyes.

"Don't cry…" He says softly, and she smiles even as tears roll from her eyes.

"He likes it when you take him riding, and he'd rather you help him in the morning than his maids, but he won't ever tell you that because he wants you to see him as a big boy." She laughs. "He loves it when you talk about me." She holds his hand tighter between hers. "You're a great King, my darling, you always were. Your people love you. I'd tell you to not trust any of my uncles, but you already know that. You don't need my help in that." He kisses her neck softly, finding safe heaven on her shoulder for a few seconds.

"And you…Francis." He looks up at her then, her tone changing. "Please take care of yourself. Eat more often my love. Go to sleep earlier." She chastises him gently. "And… don't feel guilty about caring about someone again. I'm gone and I won't return. " She says quite simply. "If you find someone-"

"No," he interrupts her, "don't ever say that." How could she think that he'd ever love another woman, that he could replace her?

"You can be happy again, you can love-"

"Mary, no. How could I ever marry anyone else? You're my Queen. You always will be." He tells her earnestly.

"All I am saying is you don't have to be alone." She looks down and says, smoothing her skirts; in that tone of voice she used when he was being stubborn and she didn't feel like fighting him on it.

"I'm not dreaming am I?" He laughs. "I'm not sure you'd be this stubborn if I had imagined you."

She meets his eyes as the sweetest of sound fills the air. Her laughter; sending warmth through his chest. He loves her laugh so much. He would tickle her unmercifully some mornings just so he could hear it, loud and free and sweet; as she squirmed beneath him and begged him to stop.

"I miss your laugh…." He tells her. "I miss _you_ so much. Some days…some days I feel like I can't do it anymore." He confesses, looking away from her towards the river, but her hand on her cheek pulls him back, forcing him to meet her eyes.

"But you know you can." She says firmly. "You have so much to live for."

It's true, he knows. But it's hard to face the world alone when there used to be a time his whole world was her. She was more than his wife, more than his queen; she was his counselor, his best friend, his most trusted advisor, the only person he trusted completely, and he loved her more than anyone in his life-until he found out she would also be the mother of his child. He lost more than his companion when she passed away, he lost a part of himself. Desperation at losing her once more grips at him then.

"Can I meet you like this every night? If this is-" at her exasperated smile, he finally relents and accepts that she's truly here. "Will you be there when I fall asleep?" Is what he asks her, because he hadn't thought of what would become of him once he woke up from this, how he would go on once he couldn't see her or touch her anymore. Cold fear starts to loom over him at her sorrowful smile.

"I can't," she tells him. "I'm sorry, my love."

"Don't leave," He pleads. He doesn't know what he will do once this moment is gone.

"I don't have to just yet." She answers him. "I have this night."

He pulls her closer then, overwhelmed by her and her smell and then the taste of her lips. And he realizes then that he never forgot what she felt like, what she tasted; that he may have tried to bury it but it never left him. She moans as he pulls her even closer, pressing her to his chest; his fingers tangled in her hair. It feels like it always did, except for the urgency of knowing that this is the last time. He stops only when the need for air becomes pressing.

"When I die, will you be there?" He asks her breathlessly, desperately; because he needs some hope, something to hold on to for the rest of his life without her.

"I'll wait for you," she tells him, just as breathless and red cheeked. "I _can_ promise you that."

And it's enough for him.

He makes love to her then, laying her down on the blankets laid on the grass, the river passing by next to them like a whisper in this world of their own making. He makes it a point to run his hands over every inch of her body, to memorize her like he never did before. To taste her lips, and the sweat off her neck and her collarbone, to relish the way he can swallow her moans with his mouth. He makes love to her and then just holds her, he holds her close and tells her stories of James and she nods and laughs and he gets the feeling that she's always been there, in the breeze or in the sunlight coming through his windows.

And then the sunlight starts bleeding away from the sky, giving way into night, and he knows from the look in her eyes that it's time.

"Don't go." He whispers, as if speaking any louder would make her disappear faster. But he knows it's useless, that it's a miracle he even got this few moments with her at all.

"Close your eyes" She tells him, her eyes shining, and we he doesn't obey she presses a kiss to each of his eye lids. "I love you." She murmurs, before brushing her lips against his.

He wakes up that morning with tears on his pillow, and the faint smell of lavender hanging in the air.

"I love you." He says to the empty room.

* * *

**a/n: For lovely user WyaRose, who requested a follow up where Francis dreamt of Mary to soften the angsty blow. I'm not sure if I accomplished that. Sorry.**

**Thanks for reading and let me know what you think!**


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